Five
by The Cake Genius
Summary: The night L's parents died, on his fifth birthday. A glimpse into his mind. Rated for disturbing content and sadness.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note or L. I just own this interpretation of it and him.**

October 31, 1984

The late October rain pounded like angry fists from the black London sky at the shuddering windows of the dilapidated apartment. I won't say "my," because nothing was truly mine save my mind, and I won't say "home," because it simply wasn't home. My home resided within my thoughts. I reasoned that this was a good thing, since most children become rather attached to their homes. I tried to have as few attachments as possible, because that is where weaknesses are born.

There were, of course, some attachments that had to be made. As much as I wanted to disappear, I could never get rid of myself completely.

For example, I was now staring intently at a duct taped digital clock that read 11:59. There was less than a minute until my birthday, October 31st, which I mainly liked because of the sugar that accompanied it.

The glowing digits were replaced by conformation of midnight. I shivered excitedly. I was officially eight years old.

I smiled. I had bought my own birthday present, knowing that my parents wouldn't know what I wanted. I certainly cared for them, even if they didn't exactly... reciprocate it, I suppose. Or maybe it was normal to wake up with bruises. Maybe it was normal for me to be able to block out sounds and retreat into my own world. Maybe it was normal to never hear the words "I love you."

The probability of that outcome was less than five percent.

I didn't blame them for what they had become. I knew Good from Evil, and they were part of the Good. Even if the drugs my father sold and my mother's shoplifting were illegal, I could never perceive them as part of the Evil. They were my parents. I liked to think that it wasn't so much about them being Good or Evil, but whether I was; If I cared for them, and they were Evil, it would certainly mean that I was Evil too, and I wanted to be Good.

Or maybe I was just more human than I thought.

Love was scary.

Anyway, I knew, with a deep reluctance, that they did not understand me, and that they probably never would, given my already superior intelligence. I had taught myself to read at three, mainly because I was bored, and since I had been alone, I had nothing better to do. For this, my eighth birthday, I had snuck into a goodwill store and helped myself to a mystery novel of 523 pages. I had sworn to myself that I would save my treat until today, and had been impatiently waiting by the clock eve since, huddled into a ball, worrying at my thumbnail with my teeth.

I'd hid my secret in plain sight: in my parents' room, right under the bed. Not anywhere near where I had purposefully found my father's cocaine, but in their room nonetheless.

Silent as a cat, I crept into the room and immediately felt something wrong. In the dark, I couldn't see very well, but I could feel shivers racing up and down my hunched spine like the clammy feet of hungry rats. "Mother? Father?" I called, hating how weak my trembling voice sounded to my own ears.

There was no answer.

The shivers increased, and though I knew it was foolish to say anything further, my childish instinct won out. "Where are you...?"

I walked hesitantly forward, and suddenly felt something... slimy... against my feet. My stomach lurched. In horror, I faltered, identifying the substance as the slight smell reached my nostrils.

It had been recent, then.

Which meant that someone inside the apartment must have done it, as my perception skills were extremely high, and I would have noticed someone break in. I did not altogether rule out a brief bout of insanity on my part, as I knew it was not terribly uncommon among genius children, especially neglected ones. But I reasoned the probability of that happening was only about fie percent. There was also less than a one percent chance that they were sober. Since my mother hadn't used drugs alone since the day he beat her for it, the most plausible scenario was that he did it before her, and then got violent in his drugged state. Yes...

He never had thought right.

90 percent.

All of these thoughts had time to race through my head in less than two seconds before it crashed on me.

I couldn't turn on the light. I couldn't. My stomach was roiling, and the blood was spilled on my feet, and I couldn't do it. I didn't want conformation of their death. I didn't want to know how it really happened. I didn't want to prove anything. If there was no proof, maybe... maybe it wasn't true.

I was running before I knew what I was doing. I was just not there any longer, and suddenly the apartment door was open, and oh, there were the stairs, and ow, that hurt on my hands- did I fall? But no, I didn't have time- and I was almost in the street, no, don't run in to that car (too loud, too loud), and bare feet slapping on the pavement, running, running, running, falling, pain, up again, running without knowing where I was going because it was sososo dark and wet and cold-

I slowed only once I realized I hadn't breathed for a long time. Lightning ripped through the sky again, and I stared at it. I was drenched. I didn't care. It was all some dream. I wasn't really here; this wasn't really happening.

This was all just a game.

A game.

Piece by piece, I removed myself. I flipped the switch in my mind, and poof! all emotion was gone, left to charge until it had enough strength to come back. It was a survival skill I had perfected. Now, I was able to survive, if only for a period of time.

I quickly found a secluded alley, almost pitch black from shadows, groping around blindly until I found a trashcan. I hid behind it, so at least a part of me was safe from the storm. Wind ripped through my clothes as if they weren't there. I shivered violently, curled into the smallest possible ball I could be, hoping I was invisible.

My breath came in shudders, and my eyelids weighed a ton each, but I snapped them open as soon as they slid even partway closed to stop the horror movies behind my eyelids from playing. I could still feel the sensation of blood sliding into the crevices beneath my toes... I shuddered even more violently as I tried not to hyperventilate. My thumb was probing, over and over, across my lips, because I was there, and I was alive, and I would survive this somehow.

97 percent said I wouldn't.

_Happy birthday to me,_

_Happy birthday to me,_

_Happy birthday, L Lawliet,_

_Happy birthday to me._

I spent the numb night like this until dawn began to bleed into the sky.

**A/N: I originally planned for this to be part of a larger fic, but I am now rendered unable to write that particular story. If you like this, though, please check out my other stories. Thank you for reading, and, as always, review!  
**


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